


This isn't the movie Ghost

by fate_overrated



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Ghost Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25740976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fate_overrated/pseuds/fate_overrated
Summary: One shot short fic in which Joshua is terribly at playing the role of Mr.Mystery man and should really stick to his day job.
Relationships: Kiryu "Joshua" Yoshiya/Sakuraba Neku
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	This isn't the movie Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Before you get up my ass about it, this is a post-game AU. Neku has aged (because people do that.) Joshua is portrayed in cannon age as being older as explained the secret files in the game.
> 
> That being said, enjoy! This was a gift for my buddy Abnormallynice on Twitter and Tumblr. Please go support their art.

It's the way the lights flicker at night. They follow his path, match the pulse of music because old habits die hard and there's a sensual satisfaction in crowning the night with a head full of noise. But it  _ isn't _ a coincidence. He's finally come to terms with that.

The static that afflicts the radio at night, the way that Netflix just shuts down and subtitles look like some eldritch creature just vomited onto the screen.

Somehow, he knows. He's not sure how, there's nothing logical about it, but he knows. And really, was there  _ anything _ logical about his experience in the UG?

He shakes it off, just like he has every night since shadow seems to have grown a cruel sense of humor. Exhausted from restless nights of sleep he drags himself off the couch and into the bathroom. The TV's still on in the living room blaring some commercial about selling television sets with a cheerful voice that grates on his nerves. DarbeeVision? Who the fuck even buys crap from commercials anymore.

His clothes trail a path through to the bathroom and the back of his head hits the wall while he waits for the water to heat.

Fucking Joshua Kiryu. Fuck him and his lies. The empty promises. The  _ absence _ after weeks of waiting. Weeks, months, years. So why now, of all times, is he plagued by the ghost of the past, dredged up from the sewers of a world parallel to his own.

And what he really hates? His dick twitches. By the time he steps into the shower he's half hard and already palming at himself in an attempt to satiate a wave of primal urges. But it's not Joshua. His hands are clumsy and rough where Joshua has pianist hands. They're long and delicate and purposeful. 

_ You know you really should shut the door if you're going to touch yourself like that. _

The thought comes suddenly, violently, and completely not his own. It wasn't that he  _ heard _ it, but he felt it. It's so jarring his hand tightens his grip too much. "Shit!" He lets his dick drop, eyes snapping open to a blur of water. He can't see much from the steam, thick strands of red hair trace maps down across his eyes and over his cheeks. Still, he can see it. The fingerprints smearing through the condensation on the glass wall. They form a hand print that trails away. Through the fog he can barely make out a figure.

"Fuck...Joshua?"

The figure doesn't reply and Neku purses his lips, eyes roll, and he lets his back hit the wall, staring in frustration more than belief, at the outline of those hand prints.

Minutes pass, his eyes droop closed and he resigns himself to the buzz of the air and the unsettling feeling of being watched. Even years later, the mark of all those weeks in the UG have left him stonewalled to anything out of the ordinary. His dick's already gone soft, the urge for a quick get off subdued by the taunting of a ghost that may, or may not, be shadowing his days.

It's only when his will has ebbed and his muscles have gone slack, that he feels it. There is no denying this time. The startlingly press of hands against his thigh that drag up to grip at his hips. The quiet shush is too pronounced to be the hiss of water. His eyes snap open but he doesn't dare look down. The water's still hot but there's a chill that runs down his spine and causes him to tremble. Everything about this is wrong, fight or flight is on overdrive. But he knows. He  _ knows _ who this is. What this is, and his gasp is caught in his throat when he feels fingers trail back down to coax his legs open, just enough. It's unsettling, that the sensation isn't quite  _ solid _ . Yet the pressure is there, wet and cool, and there’s the unmistakable palm that cups over his balls and rolls them with enough force to make him hiss. He's loath to admit his cock hangs heavy and half hard now. He's damned to let this little fucking reunion be the vague noise of the Composer prying through the walls to this world and fondling his dick in the shower. God does it feel good though, and the tongue that drags up from the underside of his cock to stiffen an already now straining erection is gold. His head hits the back of the shower wall with a wince just as a mouth, as soft and wet as the water, wraps around the head and sucks. He swears he can even feel the edge of teeth. "Holy...fuck!" It's not that he hasn't had his dick sucked before but this is eerie and wrong and thrilling. He chances a glance down to where the flesh of his dick shifts and softly indents with every pull. (Deep throat-er, much?) His hands twitch and spasm in frustration against the wall. He doesn't even have a head to grab on to or hair to grip. It's fascinating to watch though, and there's still the edge of noise that's static against the water, it could even be mistaken as heavy steam. But it's still there, the unmistakable outline of a figure on its knees, mouth and tongue working with conviction around his cock.

His stomach is tight and his hips buck senselessly against the pressure. He's sure it looks strange and unsettling if anyone were to see it but his stomach is tight and his balls are aching. "I-I guess it doesn't mater if I just fuck your mouth since you're not...here? Tangibly?"

_ Quit overthinking things like always and come _ .

That fucking invasive thought again, except it's right, and he's desperate and everything about those words are so damn hot.

It's surprising that he's able to get off, the sharp sound that escapes his throat and the wobble of his knees hell bent on giving in. His eyes are closed, head back against the shower wall because he's sure if he looks down and sees his dick, stiff and throbbing, shoot a load out into the open cavity of water and steam -- It'll kill the mood. And the pay off is sharp and consuming and leaves him twitching.

He's still reeling when he finally opens his eyes. He's not sure what he'll find, but whatever it is, it isn't there. The steam has built to a humidity that suffocates every breath and the water's too hot now. And Joshua...? It's as if he was never there. Like a fever dream that stole him away riding the back of every sleepless night he's recently had.

"Four fucking years and you come back with a goddamn blowjob in the shower?! Seriously?!" He's met with silence that's broken by the eruption of his own laughter as he slumps to the floor of his shower. The overhead light flickers and bursts with a buzz of defiance as the bathroom door slams shut to leave him surrounded in darkness.

"You're so fucking predictable."


End file.
